


What Lies Beyond The Looking Glass

by northernist



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Comic Book Science, Damian Wayne-centric, Dimension Travel, Fluff, Forgive Me, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of sibling bonding, i had to incorporate ric into this, no beta we die like mne o7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26725582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernist/pseuds/northernist
Summary: During a botched patrol Damian is thrust into an alternate dimension, and he handles the situation about as well as one would guess. As he struggles to maneuver around in a world barren of superheroes, Damian grapples with hiding a past full of regrets all while trying to mend a few complicated relationships. Slowly but surely, though, he thinks he’s beginning to learn just how much family really matters in the end.What he doesn’t know, however, is that dimensional traveling does not occur without a consequence. Back home he's been swapped with a very confused sixteen-year-old Damian al Ghul-Wayne who finds himself dealing with the fact that a) he’s in another reality, b) superheroes exist, and c) his dad, ever the stoic and emotionally constipated businessman, dresses as a bat to fight crime.Things cannot get much weirder than this.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Everyone, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne
Comments: 101
Kudos: 552





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a new fic!! I can't wait for y'all to see how it all unfolds. I don't know how the updating schedule is going to look, but I'll manage somehow. With school being extremely busy this year and all, I'll try to update as soon as I can. :') 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy chapter one!

Damian is, how Todd would so eloquently put it, having a very shitty night.

So far it’s been a rough patrol, filled with foolish, unrectifiable errors, and even more foolish imbeciles toying with his now waning patience. 

As he struggles to hold his own against three men, Damian thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ he should have taken those animal crackers from Todd when he’d offered. Dinner feels like ages ago, and the lightheadedness paired with a growling stomach are impeding his normally poised movements. So much so that he’s making mistakes that would surely garner a disapproving look from his father if he were here. Fortunately, he’s not. Or maybe not so fortunately, because the help would be much appreciated.

A few scrapes and one giant bruise on his back later is where Damian finds himself now, backflipping to evade the errant stock of a gun that would have more than likely connected with his ribs. He can’t afford to sustain a punctured lung tonight; not when he has a Christmas musical to participate in tomorrow.

He deals a harsh blow with his elbow to the one who’d almost given him cracked ribs, and a smirk paints his face as he watches the man drop his gun and fold over on himself. However, the satisfaction is short lived. Once bullets spray through the chilled air again, his mouth pulls down into a scowl. 

Damian goes to shield himself behind a nearby crate, but one of the remaining men - who appears as if he’s made of a wall of pure _muscle_ \- acts faster than he can move. He’s almost reached it before a bullet skims his right thigh, definitely drawing blood. Sucking in a pained hiss, Damian dives behind the crate and falls into a low crouch, wiping away the sticky ichor that now stains his pants. Using the time it takes for the men to reload, he weighs his options. Either he can call in for help, or run the risk of earning more injuries if he chooses to take out the rest by himself.

Damian’s mind, for some inexplicable reason, goes back to that stupid school musical, and he decides then and there that it’s not worth it to fight them alone this time.

Though it pains him a great deal to ask for Todd’s assistance, he'd rather return home (mostly) unscathed and with every bone intact, even if that excluded his pride. Swallowing his stubbornness, Damian lifts a finger to his comm. 

“Robin to Red Hood, I need backup. What’s your ETA?” 

Static is his only response, and it doesn't take long for frustration to coil in his stomach. Damian isn't going to bother trying again because he knows _exactly_ what the problem is. Of course, when he’d been shoved into a pile of snow earlier in the night, his comm link would be damaged. Of _course_. Muttering a string of curses in almost every language he knows, he slips two fingers into his belt to retrieve a batarang.

Currently, Damian’s objective seems quite simple: incapacitate the two remaining morons and dismantle their pitiful excuse of a drug operation before it has the chance to grow. It would help him tremendously if they weren’t brandishing automatic rifles, but maybe that’s asking the universe for too much, Damian thinks bitterly. 

Distantly, he discerns the faint sound of a gun cocking. Though as he waits for the second one, it never comes. Eyebrows creasing, he gnaws on his lower lip. Perhaps they’ve run out of ammo? Whatever the reason may be, Damian knows that emerging from behind the crate too soon is asking to be shot at. 

So, he listens. Strains his ears to pick up the smallest reverberations of footsteps coming closer and closer until he sees the visible dark of a large shadow - which he can only assume is the muscular criminal - stretching taller on the ground. 

He times his next move with adept precision, sliding out from behind the crate and flinging the batarang directly into the gun’s barrel. The man’s reaction time is awful, and when he finally pulls the trigger it’s already little too late; the barrel of the gun implodes with a resounding _bang_ in his hand. It’s a small victory that Damian doesn’t have time to relish in, because now he needs to deal with the other–

“ _Not so fast_ , _Robin_.”

–man. _Damn it_.

Shoulders tensing, Damian cranes his neck to the side as the other of the two men emerges from behind one of the crates. 

So _that’s_ why he didn’t hear the second cocking of a gun, because in the man’s hands is not any firearm Damian’s familiar with. Instead, it’s a bizarre looking device that resembles nothing he's ever laid eyes on before. What he can only assume is a weapon irradiates a striking violet hue that pulses as if it’s alive. Where did these lower tier criminals find the resources and money to acquire such an advanced piece of technology? 

Well, regardless of what that device may be or how these idiots got their grubby hands on such a thing, it screams bad news, and Damian doesn’t think he wants to mess with technology he is unfamiliar with. Especially when it’s in the cowering hands of some measly criminal, and pointed directly _at_ him. 

If only his stupid comm link was functioning, he and Todd would have probably already dealt with these two by now and confiscated the tech to take back to the Cave. But Todd’s not here, so he’s just going to have to do all the work by himself.

He regards the man with narrow eyes. “Point that thing away from me if you’d like to keep your fingers attached to your hand.”

The criminal blinks at him. Then, he bursts into a fit of laughter, like his threat is some kind of joke. “You’re all bark and no bite, kid. Leave the intimidation to Batman.” Confident talk for someone who looks like they’re about to piss themself, Damian thinks sourly. 

He takes a step towards Damian, who’s already sliding a hand into his utility belt. Fingertips graze the razor sharp edges of a batarang.

“Oh wait, he’s not here to save your sorry little ass this time.”

A snarl rips from Damian’s throat as he lunges at the man, the batarang leaving his hand just as fast. Somehow it _misses_ , and the batarang instead sinks into a nearby crate. Startled, the man pulls the trigger to the device and a bright wave of purplish light slams into Damian. 

Suddenly, his body floods with what feels like hundreds of volts of electricity, coursing through his veins and setting every single one nerve on fire.

The impact renders Damian rigid as a board from the spine up. He collapses unceremoniously onto the freezing ground like a puppet whose strings have been severed, and crumples in on himself in silent agony. He bites on his tongue to conceal the cry that burgeons in his throat, hard enough to where he can taste the faint tang of iron that invades his mouth.

Gradually, every puff of cold air turns labored and his writhing slows to the point where his body appears almost frozen. Everywhere, all across, it feels as if ants are crawling under his skin. Desperate fingers burn to itch his arms, his legs, his face, _anywhere,_ but his arms remain limp as wilted lilies at his sides. 

The man takes a cautious step towards Damian. He struggles to keep his eyes open as he stands over his figure. 

“What,” he wheezes, face contorting ever so slightly, “the hell did you do to me?”

The man on the left scratches his head, looking down at the device with a dumbfounded expression. “I, uh, I don’t think we were supposed to do that.”

If Damian wasn’t trying to endure so much pain and stay awake for as long as possible, he’d be rolling his eyes at how idiotic this guy sounds. 

As for the other man – the burly, scruffier looking criminal from earlier – he walks up, only to turn and shoot his counterpart an accusing glare. “Who’s we? Boss ain’t gonna be happy with you, that’s for sure. But the rest of us ain’t got _nothin’_ to do with that.”

An argument between the two men ensues, and Damian can barely register what they're saying to each other anymore. For the past few minutes his mind has been oscillating precariously on the fence of conscious and unconsciousness, and moments later, it finally succumbs to the latter. 

Immediately and without warning, the warehouse erupts in a burst of blinding violet light, eliciting a cacophony of screams from the two men who scatter out of the warehouse like startled rats. The light vanishes with all the quickness of a fleeting shadow, and with it, an unconscious Robin.

However the warehouse doesn’t remain vacant, as someone else begins to stir to life on the cold concrete where Robin had originally laid. 

*

Turns out, tonight isn’t as shitty as Jason thought it was going to be. 

Tonight, courtesy of Bruce, he’s been paired with Damian of all people, and being paired with Damian on patrol has always been, and always _will_ be, a recipe for disaster. The reason their teaming up is only a once in a few months kind of thing is because every time they _do_ patrol together, things inevitably go south. In the last few months spent fighting crime with Damian, Jason’s had a near death experience (ironic, really, for the both of them) at the hands of Penguin’s goons, a _lovely_ torn meniscus when they had fled from a barrage of Two Face’s bullets, and too many damn instances where he had to save the sorry kid’s ass before he got himself killed just by being reckless.

So it makes sense that the thought of something bad happening has been looming over his head like a dark cloud for the past few hours, but as the night drags on, he finds himself thinking that maybe the universe just might be in his favor this time around. 

He delivers one final blow to the sternum of the last criminal that belonged to a group of eight, sending him tumbling backwards in the alleyway. A pathetic batch of Gotham’s thugs, in Jason’s humble opinion. They couldn’t even put up a decent fight for more than ten minutes. 

Now all that’s left to do for the night is haul himself over to the brat, see how he’s holding up, and once that’s all said and done, head back to the sweet confines of his apartment. He’s got a brand new memory foam pillow that’s practically begging to be slept on. 

Dusting his hands off with a sigh, he spares a quick second to admire his handiwork before pivoting on his heel.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure kicking your asses, gentlemen, but I’ve got to skedaddle.” He salutes the unconscious men with two fingers and shoots his grappling hook into the adjacent building. “Toodles!” he shouts, taking off into the brumous Gotham sky and towards the kid’s location. 

“Red Hood to Robin, come in. What’s your status?” Jason says into his comm. He expects the usual click of a tongue with something along the lines of ‘ _I_ _’m handling this perfectly fine, Hood. I do not require your succor,_ ’ but none of that ever comes. No brusque remark, no ‘tt’, no _anything_. The comm link remains dead quiet. Waiting a few seconds, he tries once more, and he’s met yet again with the same silence. Behind the hood his brows furrow slightly, and a bad feeling begins to fester at the base of his spine. 

Something’s wrong, is all that Jason’s mind can conclude. The kid usually doesn’t take this long to reply. So either something is very wrong, or Jason’s just being paranoid, per usual. Whichever one it is, the thought of the brat’s safety continues to plague his conscience, and he quickens his swing with every grapple that latches onto each edifice, propelling himself through the air using more force than usual. 

When the sight of the warehouse finally comes into view, Jason’s about to let his worrying subside because he’s here, and the brat’s okay. Why else would he not be? 

Everything is going to be fine. 

That is, until Jason’s vision blurs purple, and his grappling hook misses the next building. Suddenly blinded and arms flailing about, he topples onto the rooftop of a nearby warehouse, rolling to a rough stop at the lip of the building. That is _definitely_ going to leave a nasty bruise in the morning. 

Groaning slightly, he pushes himself upward and onto his feet again, blinking his now straining eyes over and over. Then once more for good measure, as he murmurs to himself, “What the hell?”

Did he just see that right? 

Worry bleeds to panic, and Jason’s legs are moving before he can even process a thought. Leaping off the edge, he drops down to the snowy ground below. He doesn’t quite stick the landing but recovers anyway, snow crunching underfoot as he runs directly for the warehouse entrance.

Once he throws open the doors and steps over the threshold, Jason skids to an abrupt halt when his eyes land on Damian.

Well… a very different looking Damian. A slightly _older_ Damian. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Honestly, the kid looks no older than sixteen or seventeen, dressed in nothing but a pair of sleep pajamas and slippers. _Slippers._ Jason would laugh and tease him endlessly at the sight if the circumstances were anything else but _this._

This... _older_ Damian, having grabbed his attention when he nearly yanked the door off its hinges, stares up at Jason like he’s sprouted a second head. Slowly, he experiments taking a step forward, but the kid hastily scrambles backwards against the concrete. His back thuds rather hard against one of the warehouse crates, and he startles momentarily from the impact. Those wide green eyes never stray from Jason’s presence as he gropes the ground for some sort of object, and manages to find a (conveniently) discarded batarang. Older Damian wields it threateningly towards Jason who just stands irresolute, lost for words and unsure of what to do. 

What the hell is he _supposed_ to do? 

For fuck’s sake, the kid isn’t even holding the batarang the right way. 

“Stay back!” he shouts, and Jason nearly flinches at how sharp the words are, yet there’s still a tiny, barely discernible waver in his voice. It reminds Jason of a wounded animal that’s been cornered. The kid’s terrified. Terrified of _him._

Jason’s jaw clenches steel-tight as he continues looking down at someone who is _definitely_ Damian, but at the same time, a completely different person. He can’t help but feel a little sick as dread manifests in the pit of his stomach. 

It’s here where Jason creates for himself a new rule to never go patrolling with Damian ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and as always comments and kudos are really appreciated. It seriously makes my day ten times better when I hear what you guys have to say! Mwah.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an early-ish chapter. Enjoy!

Okay, what Jason said earlier about the universe being kind to him just this one time? Well, it turns out he’s been proven wrong. Shocker. This right here is cigarette worthy, and although he’s quit for a few years now, his fingers still itch to grab the nonexistent pack that would be tucked snug in his jacket’s pocket. 

“I said stay back!” the kid warns, and Jason swears he hasn’t even moved an inch forward. 

“Kid – _Jesus Christ,_ I’m not going to hurt you.” Okay, maybe not his best consoling job, but the kid’s beyond scared and brandishing a sharp batarang at him; a weapon which, for some odd reason, he seems unfamiliar with, and nothing is more dangerous than someone who has a weapon and doesn’t know how to use it. Jason should know, he’s encountered his fair share of them in the field. He just never thought Damian would be one of them. _Other_ Damian, he reinforces mentally. _Other._ Original Damian wouldn’t be shaking like a leaf in his presence. Is it from fear, or the winter air rushing in through the open door? Jason thinks it’s both. 

“How did I get here?” the kid demands, as if Jason would know the fucking answer to that. That’s the million dollar question of the hour. “And who are you?”

“You know me,” says Jason, voice low and calm. 

Slowly, his fingers lift to remove the hood and domino mask. He sets them on the floor, hands raised in the air as he cautiously takes a step forward. Recognition dawns on the kid’s face, and Jason takes this as a sign that Other Damian – er, _Damian_ , has thankfully relaxed. 

The kid lowers his rigid defense as well as the batarang until it slips completely out of his hand, clattering to the ground. He blinks up at Jason, familiarity etched in his features. 

“Jason?”

“Okay, this is definitely weird now,” Jason deadpans. 

“How’s it weird?”

“You just said my name.”

“That _is_ your name, isn’t it?” the kid says with the raise of one dubious eyebrow. 

Jason crosses his arms. “Don’t get smart with me, brat.”

“‘ _Don’t get smart with me, brat,’”_ Damian pantomimes with his hand in a deep and very terrible impersonation of Jason’s voice. The gall of this kid to _mock_ him, especially after he looked as if he was about to wet himself not even a minute ago. Jason feels a blood vessel throb to life on his forehead, and he forces out a calm breath through gritted teeth. 

“Just… stay put for a sec while I handle this,” he replies in wooden tones. Damian stands with an indignant _tt,_ and Jason does a double take when he realizes how tall the kid actually is. Definitely the doing of a major growth spurt, because he’s probably close to five eight, or at least somewhere around there. _Heh,_ that makes him taller than Replacement now.

“Always so bossy,” the kid mutters, turning his nose up petulantly.

Walking out of earshot from the kid he comms Batman, delivering a brief heads up that he’s on his way back with some unexpected company, for lack of a better word, and he’ll make sure to explain everything in full detail once they’re at the Manor. When all that’s said and done Jason turns back around to Damian, who’s tapping a slippered foot impatiently against the ground. 

“C’mon,” Jason says while scooping up his hood and mask, “I have to take you back.”

Gone is the irritated expression Damian wore a minute ago, replaced by rising panic. “Back? Back where?” 

“Home.” Jason doesn’t bother pressing him further, but that doesn’t stop him from shooting Damian a bewildered look. That’s a question he’ll save for another time. 

“How old are you?” An out of the blue question, he knows, but it’s been bothering him for a while now, so it’s best to get it out of the way. 

Damian laughs. “Why ask me my age when you already know how old I am? Am I going crazy, or did I just hit my head too hard today?”

“Just answer the question, gremlin.” 

“Sixteen.” So he was right. Damian gives an exasperated moan. “God, this day cannot get any weirder.”

You and me both, kid, Jason wants to say as they depart from the warehouse. You and me both.

  
  
  


Outside the snowfall is heavy; snowflakes dance to the ground in white tendrils, peppering in Jason’s hair and all over his face. He can already feel his nose and the tips of his ears turning bright red from the chill of the air, so he places the hood back over his head. 

Faint sniffles permeate through the air from behind Jason. Glancing back he sees the kid hugging himself for dear life, and his eyes once again roam over the kid’s much too thin pajamas that are seriously inadequate for withstanding Gotham’s freezing temperatures. He frowns. 

“Here.” Shimmying off his jacket Jason tosses it to an unsuspecting Damian, who fumbles to catch it. Blinking in surprise his eyes soften around the edges, and Jason doesn’t miss the way the kid’s lips quirk up in a small, appreciative smile. 

“Thanks,” he says through chattering teeth, and relief is palpable in his tone. He drapes the large jacket over his shivering shoulders with a content sigh. Jason shrugs while he turns as if to say ‘ _Don’t mention it.’_ Can’t have him shaking in his skin all the way home. 

It takes only a few footsteps into the snow before realization slams into him hard. His brain clearly did not seem to remember up until now that his mode of transportation getting here was a _grappling hook_. Damn it. 

Damian walks up beside him. “Uh, where’s your car?”

Jason’s hood hides the silent groan he makes to himself. Fishing his phone from out of his pocket, he dials a number he knows by heart. “Looks like Alfred’s gonna have to pick us up.”  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  
What can Jason say except thank God for Alfred Pennyworth. He managed to drive to their location in no time, and Jason thanked him profusely for saving them from walking home in the cold and freezing their asses off in the process. 

For the most part, the entire ride was sort of peaceful. Well, save for the constant barrage of questions Damian hurled at Jason along the way, all of which he answered either vaguely or not at all. 

_“Why’re you wearing that mask?”_

_“Why’s Alfred being quieter than usual?”_

_“And what’s with the bat on your chest?”_

_“Who were you talking to earlier? My dad?”_

_“Why aren’t you giving me any straight answers!”_

Seriously, the questions became tiresome after the second one, and Jason wasn’t even sure he was _permitted_ to answer Damian truthfully. At least, not until this whole clusterfuck of a situation was properly dealt with.

Once they arrived, though, the kid just gave up with the questions; probably because he understood that it was a futile effort. Upon entering the Manor, Jason gave Damian strict orders to stay in the living area while he handled some ‘adult business.’ And, since this is technically still Damian, it was beyond difficult to try and get the little demon brat not to leave his spot on the couch. Jason was met with an array of protests and almost every insult in the book, all of which Jason had become impervious to over the years. It took calling Titus and Alfred the cat downstairs to finally have him comply, the stubborn little shit. 

So this is where Jason finds himself now, leaning against the railing in the Batcave after having given Bruce the rundown on the situation. A thick and all too consuming silence hangs over the Cave like a suffocating blanket, save for the occasional flap of a bat’s wings from above. The man does _not_ look happy whatsoever as he mulls over the information and well, Jason can’t really blame him. His son is a few years older and apparently a smidge clueless about the whole _Caped-Crusader_ thing. Jason still can’t quite wrap his head around it himself.

“How did this happen?” Bruce’s gruff voice slices through the air like a knife. 

Jason resists the temptation to facepalm. “Why’s that your first question and not, ‘ _are you both okay?’_ ” he mutters sourly. Bruce’s demeanor remains unfazed. Sighing, Jason says, “Look, I don’t know how it happened or _what_ even happened. We started out fine! Then the comm link doesn’t work while I’m heading over to his location and suddenly there’s this explosion of purple light, _which, by the way, my eyes are still trying to recover from–_ ”

“Stop,” interrupts Bruce, and his tone is as steely as his eyes. Jason does, albeit with a grumble. “An explosion of purple light,” he restates slowly, earning a nod of confirmation from the younger vigilante. At this, Jason notices the way Bruce’s eyes carefully consider for a moment before he swivels around in the Batcomputer chair. It’s a look he’s intimately familiar with, having seen it on many occasions when the two were coming close to a breakthrough in a case during his long gone Robin days. 

Jason gives an incredulous laugh. “You seriously couldn’t have already solved this.”

“I haven’t,” begins Bruce, “but we may have information that can lead us in the right direction.”

His fingers stutter against the keyboard; one by one, files and their subsequent details pop up on the large monitor. Leaning forward with his chin resting on his hands, Bruce studies the screen. “Four sightings of a purplish hue emanating from warehouses located in different areas in Gotham, each accompanied by a sharp energy spike. This will have been the fifth sighting, if what you say is correct.”

“‘Course it’s correct,” Jason sniffs. “My hurting eyeballs are proof of that.”

“Zatanna’s already been contacted,” Bruce informs. “She’s on her way as we speak. If this is, in fact, the doing of any magical entity, then her help will be beneficial. For now, I’ll investigate further to see what I can find. Oh, and in the meantime,” Bruce glances over to the clock entrance of the Cave before averting his focus back to the computer, “keep an eye on Damian for me.”

Spluttering, Jason pushes himself off the railing. “Wait, hold on – you’re putting me on _babysitting_ duty? He’s sixteen!” This man is clearly off his rocker if he thinks that Jason, the wayward member of this dysfunctional family, is the person who’s most qualified of them all to watch over the brat like some _house nanny._

Bruce’s fingers pause in their typing, but his gaze never strays from the Batcomputer. “Call it what you want, but right now he’s alone in a foreign place and the only people he thinks he can trust might as well be strangers to him. I need you to make him feel at home, that way we can get information that will help solve this when he’s comfortable telling us.” 

“And what about you?” Jason’s eyes narrow fractionally. “Aren’t you gonna see how he’s holding up? You haven’t even seen him since we arrived thirty minutes ago.” 

A pause. “I’ll stop by his bedroom in the morning.” Then another quick pause, and Bruce takes a breath. “I only have one request, Jason: don’t bring him down to the Cave.”

Jason waves a hand in the air, already walking away. “Whatever you say, B-man.”

Him. Babysitting. Like hell. 

Dreadfully anticipating the worst that will come from babysitting the brat, he drags himself up the stairs and towards the clock when the low rumbling of a bike pervades the Batcave air, abruptly catching his attention. Sounds like a certain former Robin is back home. Stopping halfway up the steps, Jason’s mind is already concocting a way out of this mess. 

He turns and descends the stairs swiftly and quietly, coming up from behind a clueless Tim who’s too busy dusting the remaining snow off his bike to hear footsteps gradually getting closer until it’s already too late.

“Perfect timing, Replacement.”

Tim freezes in his cleaning like he’s been caught red handed. Not that he’s stolen anything, though. It’s just that he instantly recognized Jason's tone of needing a favor for whatever machination he’s wanting to pull. Basically, it translates to a disaster waiting to happen, and it’s not anything Tim wants to get caught up in right now; he has too much on his plate as it is.

“I need you to help me with something.” _Bingo_. Tim inwardly groans. Spinning on his heel he looks Jason up and down, crossing his arms. 

“What’s in it for me?”

Face splitting with a grin, Jason pulls out a crumpled twenty, to which Tim gives him a blank stare. So, Jason pulls out another twenty and some spare pocket change. Sighing, Tim knows that Jason won’t relent until he has his help and hesitantly takes the money from his hands. Tim eyes him warily.

“Mind filling me in on what kind of favor I’m helping you with?”

“Trust me,” says Jason, patting a reassuring hand on the teenager’s shoulder, “you’ll be fine.”

For some strange reason, Tim doesn't think he will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon we’ll be diving into the plot of the story. Thank you for reading, and a big thank you for all the kudos and kind comments you guys left so far, I love you all <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to those who have supported this fic so far, I’m extremely glad you all are liking how it’s progressing.

When Robin comes to, he knows that something is off almost immediately. Mind still hazy with disorientation, he cracks open an eye as his hands roam over what is most definitely _not_ concrete. Tense fingers grip at soft, unbelievably smooth linen, and once the last bit of unconsciousness trickles away he realizes that he’s tucked beneath layers of thick covers in a bed; not sprawled on the cool and damp ground of a warehouse. 

The faint smell of fresh pancakes pervades the air, making Damian’s stomach growl with hunger, but the thought of food is shoved aside. He can worry about eating later. Right now, he needs to figure out what the hell is going on. 

Giving his head a vigorous shake, he sits upright and hisses when his skull throbs with the onset of a fierce headache. It’s a pain that nearly rivals taking Harley’s mallet to the head, it hurts so badly. Gently rubbing circles over his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the pain, he peels the blankets off carefully and swings his legs over the edge. When his hands retract to his side, he blinks his eyes open. Then, he blinks again. And again and again and again.

This... is his room. Except, it’s _not._

Damian rubs his eyes once more as if they’re deceiving him, as if they’re playing some sort of cruel trick, and he looks again. Everything remains the same as he saw five seconds ago. 

The usual charcoal gray color of his walls is no more. Instead, they’re a garish beige that makes his eyes sore. Not only that, but they are bereft of his twin swords, and hanging on every wall are a plethora of polaroid pictures, art pieces, medals, certificates, _a flatscreen T.V.;_ none of which were ever there to begin with. Gaming consoles sit snug underneath the T.V., school papers strewn messily about over the floor, a burgundy wooden desk situated against the opposite wall with a surface that’s covered in picture frames and crumpled candy bar wrappers. So much has been changed, so much is eerily different _,_ and the only remnants he even remotely recognizes in this room are the pale curtained windows and a lifeless fireplace.

It’s safe to say that his headache is now long forgotten.

Small vibrations from a nearby cell phone startle Damian momentarily, but he composes himself when he realizes that it’s supposed to be _his_ cell phone. Gaze averted to the nightstand on his left, he hesitates for a split second before reaching for the device. 

The screen lights up with another notification from… Twitter? That can’t be right; he’s not on any social media. Well, unless one of his idiot siblings signed him up for it, which he’d hardly believe in the first place. Sliding his thumb down the list of seemingly endless notifications, his eyes scan over each one. A few texts from a family group chat (he doesn’t recall ever being a part of a family group chat, let alone _any_ group chat), a missed call from Maya Ducard (when did he give her his number?), and even more missed calls from Jon. 

He scrolls further, thumb moving faster with each passing second, and he almost drops his phone onto the floor when he comes across one contact in particular. The name DICK GRAYSON occupies half the screen in bright, bold letters with three unopened text messages. He stares at the name, and it stares back.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right at _all._

Out of slight panic, he turns the phone off and tosses it aside. 

The smell of pancakes grows stronger, invading his nose and eliciting an even louder growl from his stomach than before. He falls backwards onto the bed. Closes his eyes and ignores the hunger that’s gnawing at him from the inside. 

Briefly, he wonders if this is all some sort of dream that he’ll eventually wake up from. Or maybe it’s worse. Maybe he was drugged on patrol and he’s now trapped in a state of hallucination. Did Todd make it to him in time? Is Todd even _safe?_ Flexing his fingers across the bed sheets, his mind runs over every possible scenario, every minute detail he can possibly remember until every whirring thought comes to a grinding halt. 

The sensations come back to him in flashes; phantom pin pricks tickling every inch of skin. The violet light, the weapon, those men, _the searing pain._ Then, darkness. And now here. 

He’s smart enough to know what this might mean, but a stubborn, stupid part of him denies it deep down. This couldn’t possibly be the work of an alternate universe, that’d be absolutely insane _._

 _...Could_ it be possible? 

The more he thinks about it, the more sick he feels. Suddenly those pancakes don’t seem very appetizing at the moment.

Propelling himself from off the bed, Damian lands on the floor. A mistake, really, because he seems to have forgotten that a bullet had skimmed his leg not too long ago. The dull stinging in his leg amplifies tenfold once he puts weight on it, and he stumbles about before his leg finally buckles. Arms flailing to grab hold of something sturdy, he settles for the bedside and saves himself from collapsing onto the floor. Wobbling slightly, he manages to regain his balance and glances down. Dry patches of blood mix with fresh blood that trickles in rivulets down his uniform’s pants. 

The Batcave, his mind supplies. Patch up the wound and then find his father. If anyone knows what’s happening, it’s Batman who he can rely on to tell him. 

Huffing out a strained breath, he slides out a batarang and slices off a small piece of the bedsheet. Ties it around his thigh tightly like a gauze before standing on his feet again. He makes his way towards the bedroom door, forcing himself not to limp in the process.

When he opens the door and goes to step out into the hallway, he slams into a wall of muscle.

“What the–” he begins, but the rest of the words die on his tongue as he lifts his head. When he catches a glimpse of tamed black hair and familiar glacial blue eyes, Damian’s heart stutters against his ribcage. Familiar eyes that are extremely wide and staring directly down at him. 

Then, Damian whispers a name that he hasn’t said in what feels like an eternity. “Grayson?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  
  


An alternate dimension. That has to be it. It’s the only somewhat logical explanation, at least more reasonable than the other explanation being he was pumped full of illegal drugs and forced to live through an actual nightmare.

It’s not Ric that stands before him, gawking down at his presence like he thought it would be. It’s his doting older brother, who has an absurd proclivity for hugs that he’ll never really understand; his mentor, who gave him the Robin legacy when he was deemed worthy of it; his friend, who helped him when no one else would, even when his own father couldn’t _._

He can tell that it’s the Richard Grayson he’s always known _,_ and he’s right in front of Damian. The surprise that colored his face seconds ago now morphs into confusion. 

“Bruce!” Dick suddenly yells, and the palpable alarm in his voice renders Damian stone-still. Wide blue eyes never wander from Damian as he shouts again, much louder this time, “Bruce, there’s someone in Damian’s room!”

“Wait, Grayson–” he starts and _shit,_ this is not what he signed up for tonight. He backs up into the room, utterly lost and unsure of what to do because why in the world does Grayson not recognize him?

Does Grayson actually believe he’s a _threat?_ The thought stings exponentially more than the pain that radiates from his thigh.

That’s when it hits him. He’s still wearing his Robin uniform. His hand raises to take the mask off, but what happens next is so quick his mind doesn’t register it fast enough. He’s immediately on the ground, face down on the floorboards and arms locked behind his back in an iron-tight grip. Stunned into silence, realization soon comes to him that it’s _Grayson_ who’s thrown him onto the floor, like he’s some damned interloper. 

“Who the hell are you and how’d you get inside?” Dick threatens, and the absurdity of his words thrusts Damian back to the present. 

“I’m not an intruder–!” he struggles out, but the hold on his wrists only tightens. He nearly cries out when the pressure of the floorboards digs deeper into his thigh. Adrenaline surges throughout his body, and he starts to writhe from under Dick’s hold only to kick him right in the chest, hard _._ The impact sends Dick tumbling off, and Damian stumbles to his feet. 

“ _I_ _t’s me!”_ he pleads, ripping off the domino mask and throwing it aside as he heaves in gulps of air. For a fleeting moment, he sees the way Dick’s eyes falter, the way his brows pinch down as if he’s contemplating what to say next. 

He says nothing.

Distantly, Damian hears footsteps ascend the stairs and gradually become louder as they boom down the hallway. That has to be Father. 

Panic consumes him, squandering any and all rational thought. Not sparing a second to think or even attempt to reason with Dick or his father, he turns on his heel. Unlatches the sash lock on the bedroom window and flings it wide open to where it clangs harshly against the wall. Without looking back, he jumps.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Running is arduous on his bad leg, but despite the pain that undulates with each step he never slows. 

Damian traverses through the vacant streets of Gotham, careening around every building corner in a frantic haste and never daring to turn back around. He’s trying to put as much distance between himself and the Manor, between himself and Grayson _._ He banishes the thought of his brother that suddenly plagues his mind, gritting his teeth. He didn’t think he’d be ready to see him under _normal_ circumstances if Grayson had regained his memories. But this? This is infinitely worse. 

Even as himself, he still never recognized Damian. And the icing on top? He didn’t seem to recognize Robin, either. 

As the adrenaline rush from before begins to deplete what energy he has left, Damian decides that the alleyway sandwiched between an ice cream parlor and a bookstore will suffice.

He slides down the wall of the dimly lit alleyway he’d entered, Christmas lights flickering sporadically from above. The cool chill of morning wind bites at his exposed skin, sending shivers down his frame. He shrivels in on himself like a decaying lily, pulling his knees up and wrapping trembling arms tightly around them. 

For the time being, he’ll stay here. Allow himself a while to recuperate and go from there. What he needs to focus on doing right now is calm down, damn it, because panicking like this isn’t helping. If anything, it’s only managing to exacerbate the headache that threatens to return in full force. 

So, he sits like this for a couple minutes, counting every few seconds with each frosty breath that curls from his mouth and into the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices something stirring and glances over to find a Persian kitten, of all things; small, white and unimaginably frail. If it weren’t for his keen perception he’d have completely missed the little thing as it crawls out from a tattered brown box. The kitten trudges her stubby legs through the thick blankets of snow and towards Damian. Soft smile gracing his lips, he watches as the kitten struggles over patches of uneven snow.

“Where is your family?” he asks softly. As if to answer his question the kitten meows, and Damian’s smile fades. “You’re alone out here, too, huh?”

Her eyes look into Damian’s, and ever so carefully he reaches out and scoops the kitten into his hands, setting her in his lap. He wraps the driest parts of his uniform over the small thing, fingers gingerly petting over wads of wet fur.

“I don’t suppose you’ll mind if we keep each other company for a while?” The kitten meows again, and Damian’s smile returns.

He’ll take that as a no.

  
  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  
  


To be frank, Damian doesn’t have much of a plan, and he doesn’t exactly think there are any contingencies for a predicament such as the one he finds himself in. If given the choice, he’d have chosen time travel instead of another reality. Especially a reality that is without Robin, and possibly even Batman.

He’s been sitting here for maybe around an hour now, simultaneously fighting off a headache while pleading with his mind to concoct some sort of plan, _anything_ at all.Thankfully, he has the company of a kitten to somewhat assuage his nervous state, otherwise he doesn’t think he’d have kept his sanity intact for this long. 

“There you are.”

Every fiber in Damian's body freezes. He cranes his neck slightly, only to be met with the panting face of a certain Richard Grayson. The man is completely out of breath – he more than likely ran to get here, Damian surmises. 

Dick, after getting his breathing under control, experiments taking a few small steps forward. Damian inches away in response. 

“Easy now. _Hey,”_ Dick consoles calmly, while Damian regards him with dubious eyes.

“Damian,” says Dick, tentatively, as if he’s testing out the name on a new face. Damian forces himself not to scoot away any further, and Dick crouches down in front of him. “Is that really you?”

Finally it begins to sink in for Damian that his brother is actually standing before him, and the sight is so surreal that he doesn’t think he believes it. 

Snowflakes begin to splinter in his hair, over his face, his uniform, but Damian doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care for the freezing chill that aches his bones, or the discomfort of snow seeping through his dampening Robin suit. He’s only fixated on the man in front of him, not wanting to blink because deep down fear coils inside him; fear that if he does blink, then Richard will vanish. Vanish and be gone, like in every dream he’s had the misfortune of waking up to. 

Visceral concern paints the older’s features, and there’s something else there, too, but Damian can’t uncover what it is. His brother is here before him, a portrait he can’t quite discern. Is it disbelief of what he’s seeing? Relief that his little brother is okay? Something else he just can’t see? It’s hard to be entirely sure. After all, he’s never been the best at reading people. That was more of Grayson’s expertise, anyway. 

Seconds fly by before Damian bobs his head up and down. Another sigh escapes Dick and now Damian can see it, clear as day. It’s both disbelief _and_ relief. 

Before he can articulate something, before he can get even a word out, Grayson takes him by the shoulder and yanks him into a hug. The cold is a distant memory, replaced by solid warmth and security and – wow _,_ this is real. Tangible evidence that Grayson is _here_ , in the flesh. 

Damian can feel the way Dick shakes his head on top of his snow ridden hair. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “How the hell did this happen, Dames?”

“I...” Damian starts, “I am not sure.”

Pulling himself away from his brother’s embrace, he peers down at the mewling kitten that’s beginning to fuss in his lap. Dick looks down as well and can’t help but chuckle a little. “You and your love for stray animals.” Damian scratches behind her ear, but doesn't respond. 

When silence soon shrouds over the two, Dick takes it as the cue to leave and rises to his feet. 

“God, it’s freezing out here.” He rubs his hands together and tucks them in his somewhat warm pant pockets. “We should probably be heading back now, Bruce has gotta be worried sick.”

“Why?” The word is so faint Dick almost misses it. 

“Hm?” he hums. 

“Why do you believe me?” Damian winces as the words come out of his mouth. Since when did his voice sound small and timid?

Dick looks consideringly at Damian for a moment before extending a hand to him. “You’re my brother.” He scrunches his brows while adding, “Younger, somehow. And wearing a Party City costume. But, still my brother.”

A Party City costume. _Party City._ So he really doesn’t recognize the uniform, after all. A part of Damian shatters at the thought, along with an unknown feeling that manifests in the pit of his stomach, reminding him that this is not the Richard Grayson he knows – _had_ known. He’s someone else’s.

His _counterpart’s._

Damian stares at the offering hand before turning away. He cups his palms gently over the kitten and lifts himself up off his spot in the snow.

“Sorry for scaring you earlier.” Dick retracts his hand, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” Damian interrupts abruptly, and he doesn’t catch the way Dick’s shoulders rise and fall in a silent, all too tired sigh.

“Yeah,” says Dick quietly. “Yeah, okay. Let’s just go home.”

Home, Damian thinks sourly, is not a place that exists here for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reunion! Well, at least for one of them lol. 
> 
> This fic is basically just exacerbating my already terrible procrastination habits. I should have completed a lot of homework today but I wrote this instead hehe… priorities :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much longer chapter I somehow managed to write out?? A surprise, to be sure. But a welcome one. 
> 
> I really poured my best efforts into this one, so I hope you guys like it!

“Absolutely not.” 

That’s all Tim says before pivoting on his heel and booking it out of there, but he’s abruptly stopped in his tracks when Jason grips his forearm, yanking him back. Yelping out of surprise, he staggers as Jason drags him in front of a very bored, much _older_ Damian, sitting criss cross on an Italian sofa near the fireplace. Titus lays on the opposite side of Damian, who’s bundled in blankets as he reads a book. Flips through the pages with an uninterested expression like he has nothing else better to do. 

Tim certainly has better things to do than this, that he can say for sure. Like catching up on WE paperwork, and going on expensive dinner dates with Kon. 

“I really don’t have time for this right now, Jason,” he pleads, desperately hoping his older brother will understand. It’s a moot effort, because Jason just raises a brow at him.

“Well, what'd ya think I was gonna make you do? Fold my laundry?” 

“Yeah, probably?” Tim seriously does _not_ have time for this. Nor does he think he has the patience. “Just – not _this._ ”

Peals of laughter incense the living area, and both heads snap in the direction of a tittering Damian who seems to be well entertained at the scene playing out before him. 

Jason ignores him, swiveling back to Tim.

“C’mon, I’ll give you more money.”

“No.”

“I can do your English homework?”

“ _No_.”

Jason’s kind of running out of options here. “Christen your first child?”

“I said no!” Tim huffs, irritation beginning to boil hotly under his skin. 

“Tim,” Jason starts, desperation tinting his voice, “I need you to work with me here, buddy. Without Dick, I’m helpless to watch over the brat alone. Even more so now that he’s like you – a very hormonal, volatile teenager. _Please_.”

Okay, Tim chooses to disregard the previous comment because wow, Jason _actually_ uttered the ‘p’ word. That’s a rare occurrence, especially directed at Tim, of all people. 

After barely even a second’s worth of deliberation, Tim finally acquiesces. 

“Fine,” he gives in, albeit with a hint of stubbornness, to which Jason lets loose a long breath he’s probably been holding in for a while. “But first, you’re gonna have to fill me in on what the hell is going on because _he–”_ Tim points at Damian, who points at himself in response as if to say ‘who, me?’ “–is not the same age as he was a few hours ago and – oh my God...” Tim trails off as a terrible realization washes over him. “Is he taller than me?!”

Jason purses his lips in a piss-poor attempt to hold in a laugh while Damian, who most definitely heard what Tim said, hops off the sofa and strides over. Although the height difference is only an inch or so, this Damian is still the same kid who _loves_ to push people's buttons for a living, and rubs it in Tim’s face by waving a smug hand over his head. “Who’s the short stack now, _short stack?_ ” 

Failing to conceal his laughter any longer, Jason nearly bursts into tears, clutching his sides. Beside him, Tim shoots Jason a piercing Bat-glare that could possibly kill, and his guffawing quickly peters out. He clears his throat, lightly nudging the kid’s shoulder with his hand. “Can it, gremlin. He’s still older than you.” 

“Not by much, from the looks of it,” Damian mumbles sotto voce, but Tim catches it and a frown tugs at his lips. He considers giving in to the ever so tempting urge of walking away again before he just sighs, accepting defeat. Whatever. He owes Jason, anyway. Might as well just bite the bullet and hope this doesn’t end up lasting more than a few days, at most.

  
  
  
  
  


It only takes fifteen minutes of somewhat peaceful quiet before Damian starts complaining their fucking ears off about being hungry, and demands that he be made something ‘right this instant.’ Since Alfred’s currently unavailable (and because Jason doesn’t want to bother the poor old man over something as trivial as getting a _snack_ for the brat), it’s up to Jason and Tim to deal with the capricious teenager. 

Jason doesn’t know how much more he can take of this babysitting duty-thing before the migraine looming on the horizon threatens to shut down his brain for good. Replacement seems to be in the same miserable boat, the bags under his eyes more prominent and the look on his face more dead than usual. 

Tim practically crumples over the island countertop in the kitchen. “I have an important seven o’clock meeting today I can’t afford to miss,” he moans, head hanging low. 

“I’ve seen you run on less than an hour of sleep before, _two_ nights in a row,” says the older vigilante holding up two fingers for emphasis, clearly unimpressed. “You’ll be fine.”

“How very reassuring of you, Jason.”

“I try.” 

Dragging himself off the counter in a lethargic manner, Tim settles into a nearby barstool. Peering up through strands of unruly hair from where his head now lays, he can see the way Jason incessantly drums his fingers on the countertop, deep in thought about god knows what. 

“What’re you gonna make?” Tim asks, trying to make conversation so that he can hopefully stay awake. 

“I don’t know, maybe something quick. Like instant mac and cheese, or a frozen pizza?” Jason suggests. He pauses for a second, considering. “You know what, frozen pizza sounds fucking divine right now. I’ll whip one up in the oven while you–” he motions to Tim with a wave of his hand, “–ask him some pertinent questions. Get us info we can use to figure this shit show out.”

Suppressing the yawn that burgeons in his throat, Tim leans back and closes his eyes. “Sure? And I’ll, uh, skip the food for now.”

Jason takes an affront to that, scandalized hand on his chest. “Hey, I make a pretty mean Totino's pizza that even Gordon Ramsay himself would approve of. Just you wait, you’ll see.”

Tim nods, and seconds later he nearly slips from off the barstool and onto the floor. Luckily, Jason’s quick reflexes allow him to catch his brother before he has the chance to collapse on the floor from sheer exhaustion. 

“Woah – stay with me, Timmy. Don’t OD on me just yet. Er, here.” After balancing Tim’s bony ass back on the stool, Jason throws open the fridge and grabs a chilled coffee, tossing it to the barely awake teen.

“It’s four in the morning, Jason.” 

“An early start to the day.” He brushes it off with a wave of his hand. “Plus, you’re gonna need it. Shit, I might need some, too.”

Jason’s lighthearted attempt falls flat on its face because Tim, vacant stare practically boring into Jason like some zombie, does _not_ look like he wants to cooperate at all right now. Well, Jason _did_ kinda force him to go along with this. But Tim owes Jason big time for the favor he so kindly went out of his way to help with four nights ago. A favor involving way too many plungers, an abundance of Pizza Hut boxes, and one cackling Conner Kent who didn’t even _bother_ lending a helping hand as Jason had to – you know what, he’ll just stop torturing himself by thinking about that horrible night and focus on the present. No amount of money Tim paid him will compensate for the emotional trauma he endured that day, but he thinks that having Tim watch over the gremlin is payback enough. 

A valiant sacrifice of what little free time Tim had that Jason bestowed upon him; the kid should be so honored. And besides, once this whole thing blows over, Tim will surely forgive him. It _is_ the season of forgiveness, after all.

Jason pastes on a toothy grin, once again trying to liven up the buzzkill in the room. “Oh c’mon, lighten up. How hard can watching him be?” 

Though Tim doesn’t reply, and he isn’t looking at Jason anymore, either. Instead, his blue eyes are trained in the opposite room. “Uh, Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s gone.”

That’s all it takes for Jason’s grin to vanish as he mutters, “Fuck.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  
  


With cautious hands, Damian shuts the door behind him as silently as he can. Taking a moment to regain his breath, he leans his head against the door with a soft thud, staring blankly at the floor below after having successfully distracted his brothers and allowing himself to get away.

Oh man, is Damian _not_ having a good day. Night? Wait – morning, he finally remembers. Running on about two hours of sleep doesn’t seem to be doing his memory any justice. Then again, when does it ever? 

Damian knows what room he’s entered; he’s familiar with every square inch of it, having lived in here his entire life. Curious eyes regard the room he stands in, roaming over its naked walls, to the criminally small twin bed right smack in the middle with a _single_ pillow. Everything is immaculately organized. No books or papers are scattered on the floor, none of his belongings or clothes in places they probably shouldn’t be. Odd, because he’s usually not this tidy when it comes to his bedroom. 

To put it bluntly, the room has a sore lack of personality. 

It doesn’t take long to come to the conclusion that his room is most definitely _not_ his room, and it certainly doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening – though Damian is a more than capable and brilliant teen for his age. It took him maybe about a minute (far faster than the average person, he believes) after Jason revealed himself to have an inkling or two about his newfound situation. That, and the fact that Tim seems much closer to Damian’s age than he was yesterday, and a little shorter, too; the graduate student looks to be fresh out of high school. 

So, either he hit his head too hard and really lost it, or he’s actually in a completely different reality. If the latter ends up being true, then well, he can kiss his plans for the week goodbye. Scratch that, his plans for the whole _foreseeable future._

Maybe he should start looking at this a bit more optimistically, like how Dick always does. He doubts he’ll find even the smallest silver lining in this, but it doesn’t hurt to try. Damian scans the vicinity of the bedroom and finds a stray brown notebook jutting out from underneath the bed. 

Writing down your thoughts is something his therapist always recommends. In a way, it’s supposed to be cathartic. A chance to flush out your inner turmoil and understand yourself a little better. Or something along those lines. 

Lips pulling up a bit, he crouches to snatch it and plops down on the floor. Slides across to where his back is comfortably straight against the bed before peeling open the notebook to a random blank page. He grabs a nearby discarded pencil before writing. 

“Pros,” he jots down while saying aloud, “I probably won’t have to take those stupid midterms anymore.” A small victory in his book.

“Cons,” he scribbles next to the ‘pros’, “my vacation plans with Dick are gonna have to be on hold. Indefinitely. _Tt_ ,” he clicks his tongue, shoulders sagging down a smidge. “And here I was looking forward to getting away from home. Now I’m right back here.”

Damian knows it sounds pretty stupid in the grand scheme of things, and that he should probably be more concerned about the matter at hand because it poses much more of a _problem_ , but he still can’t help but feel bummed out now that he won’t be spending time with Dick like he promised. Rubbing his stiff neck with a defeated sigh, he slumps onto the floor. Just another promise to his akhi he’ll inadvertently be reneging on. Shame. 

Well, it could always be worse, his mind supplies. He could be back at that party last night, stuck in the endless maelstrom of humiliation and anger and regret he’d had the misfortune of experiencing. The memories of the former night plague his conscience, still fresh, like an open wound he has yet to put a bandaid on. He shakes his head to not only rid the unwanted thoughts, but also the looks he'd gotten from his friends. Best not to dredge up those memories right now, it will only add more unnecessary stress that he, quite frankly, doesn’t need.

Damian starts to rise to his feet when a laptop on the desk across the room catches his attention, embarking his mind on a new train of thought.

Time to do some digging of his own and see just how different this world and his truly are.

Sliding across the floorboards and grabbing the laptop, he’s already typing away on Google. “Thank you, Cerf and Kahn, for your wonderful invention that is the internet,” he murmurs, tongue poking out in concentration as he hits search.

“Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.” 

Wow. These results are… definitely not what he was expecting. “Aliens. Metahumans. Supervillains, superheroes?! And – wait, _Batman?”_ Damian almost snickers at the name, but his grin falls when a sudden realization hits him.

Didn’t Jason wear a bat symbol on his clothing? 

Searching up ‘heroes with red helmets’ and scrolling through all the fatally boring Wikipedia pages of them (God, why were there so _many?_ ), Damian’s eyes widen fractionally when he comes across a few obscure articles and blurry photos of a vigilante by the moniker of ‘Red Hood.’ Said to sometimes be spotted with Batman, and sometimes even associated with him, too. Batman… 

Damian searches up the ridiculous name with a quick couple of keystrokes.

As Damian skims through each Google image of the Batman, his dark presence imposing in them all, a sickness roils to life in his gut. Yeah, it doesn’t take a genius to figure this out. If Jason really is the Red Hood, then that most certainly means that Batman is, well, his _father._

Seconds tick by as he registers the information, the cogs whirring dangerously fast in his brain. Then, he tosses the laptop onto the bed and goes from there. 

*

  
  
  
  
  


The clock is nearing four a.m. when Bruce finally decides to unglue his tired gaze from the Batcomputer. He slumps back in his chair with an exhausted sigh. Reviewing the same footage from multiple warehouses and scouring through endless amounts of files only to be met with nothing but dead ends is starting to wear on him. That, and the mountain of untouched case files he has yet to deal with that will surely add more stress than he can handle at the moment. _Not to mention_ what has happened to his son remains to be unknown until Zatanna arrives and ascertains the crux of the issue. Or at least, until he chooses to confront Damian about it himself like somehow he'll have all the answers that will solve this, but Bruce knows that’s just wishful thinking. It would never be that easy; it never is.

With Joker having escaped Arkham Asylum only a few days ago, everyone in the family already on edge with their own individual troubles, and now an entirely _new_ problem surfacing in the midst of all this chaos, things are looking to be hectic this week. 

Rolling his shoulders in an attempt to eschew the tension coiling between them, Bruce goes to lean forward again when a familiar voice chimes in from behind.

“Burning the midnight oil, sir?” Turning a bit, he finds Alfred descending the Batcave steps, silver tray topped with a glass of water and bottled medicine in one hand. 

“Hrn,” Bruce grunts in response, returning his focus back to the eye-straining brightness of the monitor in front. 

“I took the liberty of confiscating all Master Damian’s weapons I could find so that… our _new_ Master Damian will not come across them and potentially hurt himself,” informs Alfred as he saunters over towards Bruce. 

“Hrn.” Scrutinous eyes squint even more at the screen, as if it will somehow help in retaining any more of the information he’s been reviewing over for the fiftieth time this night. 

“Master Bruce.” Alfred adopts a slightly stern tone, as if he were about to reprimand a child, and sets the tray down beside him with a rather raucous clang, swaying the man’s attention away from the Batcomputer once more. “Miss Zatara’s arrival has been delayed by a few hours, so I insist that you at least get some rest before she gets here.” 

Alfred glances at the clock, and so does Bruce. It reads four-oh-three a.m. “It is already morning, and you’ve had quite a long night as is with your tracking down the Joker and now this? It must be taxing on you.”

Bruce just shakes his head, voice coarse as gravel as he grumbles lowly, “I’m coming close to something, Alfred, I can feel it. There’s a piece of information already in the evidence that might solve all of this. I just need to find it.”

“Sir, you can continue with your investigation tomorrow. Until then,” Alfred continues while setting a bottle of Melatonin directly in front of Bruce, “I implore you to sleep. I will make sure the young master is in bed by four thirty, as are the other two.”

When Alfred’s footsteps begin to recede, Bruce forces his gaze from the screen to push himself away from the Batcomputer. He swivels around in the chair.

“Wait.”

Alfred pauses in his step. He turns slightly. “Yes, Master Bruce?”

“I’ll…” he begins, hesitantly, before clearing the thickness in his throat, “I’ll check on him myself. You don’t have to worry about Damian, I’ll take care of it.”

Turning around again, Bruce misses the small quirk of Alfred’s lips as he ascends the stairway and departs the Cave. “Of course. Good night, Master Bruce.”

“Good night, Alfred,” he replies, and once again he’s left alone in the cold, quiet confines of the Cave.

  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  


Damian is rummaging through things he probably shouldn’t be rummaging through when the bedroom door creaks open, immediately alerting him. Caught off guard, Damian shuts the chest he’s been looking through rather loudly and winces at the sharp noise that permeates the air soon after. 

It doesn’t take long for surprise to morph his features when the other person walks into the room, because it’s not Jason or Tim he’d been expecting. 

It’s his dad. 

His dad, ever the stoic and emotionally constipated CEO of Wayne Enterprises, who he suspects – no, _knows_ for a solid fact to be _the Batman_ . Gotham’s Caped Crusader. The Dark Knight. The world’s greatest detective. Ubiquitous member and founder of the Justice League, server of justice, blah, blah, _blah._ His _baba._ Thinking about it makes his head spin a little too fast for his liking.

Bruce shuffles across the floorboards without sparing a single word, settling down on the edge of that unbelievably small twin bed. Awkwardly, Damian situates himself on top of the chest and crosses his legs. Neither exchange a word for what feels like forever. The air is almost suffocating, like it’s been filled with carbon monoxide, as Damian and Bruce sit there; palpable tension hangs between the two. 

“I thought I told Jason to keep an eye on you,” says Bruce suddenly, piercing through the still blanket of silence. Damian bristles slightly, glowering a bit.

“I’m sure he understands I’m a big boy who can do just fine on his own.”

“Does he know where you are?” Bruce inclines a brow.

Damian just shrugs. “Don’t think I need to tell him where I am 24/7.”

“Hrn.”

Bruce glances around the bedroom Damian dissected to the bone; it’s an absolute mess, to put it simply. Books, sketches, private journals, schoolwork – they’re all haphazard on the floor, the desk, and the bookcases. However, the pigsty Damian’s transformed this room into is not what happens to catch his eye. The laptop is.

“You know who I am.” It’s spoken as a statement, not a question. 

Damian plays dumb, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious. “Of course, you’re my dad?”

“You left the laptop open.” Ice fills Damian’s veins as Bruce turns said laptop around, revealing multiple pulled up articles and tabloids of Batman and every associated hero Damian could find connected with the name. Damian wrings his hands together out of nervous habit. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? 

Bruce sighs, closing the laptop and pushing it away. Leaning forward with his elbows rested on his knees, he regards Damian with an unreadable expression that Damian can’t quite pinpoint. 

“Tell me, what is your name?”

Oh, _this_ again. Never has Damian wanted to slap his forehead so badly. “First my age, now my name. Might as well just ask who I am, because nobody seems to know.”

At Bruce’s unamused face, he stubbornly answers, “It’s Damian.” 

“Your full name.”

Gone is the transient mesmerization of his father being an actual living superhero, replaced by agitation that itches away at his skin. 

“Damian al Ghul-Wayne. And in case you’re going to interrogate me further about basic things you should already know, I’ll go ahead and do the favor of filling you in,” fumes Damian bitterly. “I’m sixteen, my mom is Talia al Ghul – your divorced ex wife – I have three brothers and a sister, I’m in the tenth grade. What else would you like to know? My favorite kind of Subway sandwich?”

“No, I think I understand plenty now.”

“Mind telling me what you now understand?” Damian shoots back.

“I will, later.” Bruce rises from off the bed, lifting the covers as if to tell Damian to go to sleep. “Right now, I think you should worry about getting some shut-eye. You look like you need it.”

“ _Tt_. That’s rich, coming from you, Dad.” 

The moment the word leaves his mouth, he regrets ever articulating it. Both father and son look at each other, but Damian is first to peel his gaze away. He’s thoroughly read the journals, inside and out. This Damian never calls Dad, ‘ _Dad.’_ It’s always ‘Father.’ Sometimes even 'Bruce.' But saying 'Father' would have seemed so foreign to him, so unusual, and judging from the reaction he garnered from his dad, 'Dad' seems to have had that effect on him, too. 

Damian averts his attention to Bruce again, tentative with his next words. “Can I… can I ask you a question?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Will I be able to go home?”

Bruce tilts his head at the boy. “Home?”

Damian absentmindedly fiddles with his fingers again. “I don’t think I’m from here. Here, as in… you know–”

“–Of this world.”

“It boggles my mind how you can say that with such a straight face," Damian says, almost hysterical, "because I feel as if I’m going freaking insane at the fact that it might be true. I looked through my… _his_ journals,” he corrects himself, “his possessions, every nook and cranny of this room has been meticulously studied. It’s blatantly clear to me that I’m not from here. I’m not, y’know, _your_ Damian, per se. And it’s driving me absolutely _insane._

“I mean, superheroes exist! You’re _Batman!_ I’ve never even _heard_ of a ‘Batman’ until today! Not only that, but my family consists of masked vigilantes! And it turns out I’m one of them, too. Or rather, he’s one of them. The other Damian,” his voice nearly cracks on the last sentence, a betrayal to his fuming frustration. Flustering, he feels the tips of his ears burn.

“I shouldn’t have raised my voice like that. I’m sorry, Da – uh…”

“Damian,” Bruce begins, looking his son straight in the eye, “you can call me ‘Dad’ or ‘Father’ or whatever you please. I’m still your parent, different dimensions be damned.”

At this, Damian feels some of his earlier frustration dissipate. He looks down as Bruce continues, “And I know this all must be difficult for you, finding yourself in a strange place, surrounded by people you thought you knew. I understand, trust me. But I’m going to do my best to figure this out.”

“You still never answered my question from earlier.” The words are small and soft, and Bruce can’t help the way his lips tug down at his son’s defeated demeanor. 

“You’ll go home, son. I promise.” 

Faintest hint of a smile now tracing Damian’s lips, he looks up again to the determined blue eyes of his dad. Just like Dick’s, they never fail to make him feel safe and secure and reassured when he needs it the most. He’s half convinced it’s an inherent parent thing, the way they can comfort you and make it look so damn easy. 

Holding up his right hand suddenly, Damian outstretches it to Bruce.

“Gotta pinkie swear on that promise. It’s tradition.”

“And who came up with that?”

“Dick.” He says it as if it were the most obvious thing in the whole world. “Who else?”

“Of course he did,” Bruce chuckles heartily, raising his own hand. They interlock pinkies, and Damian’s half-formed smile turns into a full-fledged grin. 

“I promise," says Bruce.

“That’s a copy."

With Damian now feeling much more relieved, he settles into bed as Bruce walks to the door. Lingers over the threshold, his hand resting on the door jamb. 

“G’night… Dad,” says Damian.

“Good night, Damian.”

Bruce turns the lights off and closes the door, thumb tracing lightly over his pinkie finger as he makes his way down the hall.

  
  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  


Zatanna arrives at eight-oh-five on the dot, clad in her magician attire; she more than likely has an early show, from the look of her slightly disgruntled appearance and rushed words. Her meeting with Damian takes place in the living area, very brief and to the point. 

Meanwhile, Bruce waits in his dimly lit work office, situated in his large office chair and trying his best to fight the apprehension that tickles the base of his spine. The longer he waits, the faster the sensation climbs higher, threatening to swallow him whole and send his nerves awry. 

Around fifteen achingly long minutes pass before the doors finally swing open, and Zatanna emerges into the room.

Bruce surges from his seat, nearly knocking it backwards. “Did you find anything?”

She folds her arms over her chest, crossing the room as she speaks, “He didn’t want me prying into his mind and divulging any private thoughts. Then again, no one really likes that. I’m surprised you actually thought that might work. I mean, he’s your kid.” Zatanna knocks a knuckled fist on her head twice. “Hard exterior, tough to break through and whatnot.”

Wiping the sweat that sluices down her forehead from earlier exertion, Zatanna settles across from Bruce in a chair, looking exhausted and also…faintly perturbed? 

“How is your progress on sending him back?” asks Bruce somewhat tersely, to which the magician hesitates for a fraction of a second.

“That’s what I was about to get to,” she begins slowly. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but you may not like what I have to say.”

Clenching his jaw, Bruce warily anticipates her next words. She cautiously proceeds.

“A foreign force seems to be interfering with my incantations. I can’t easily undo what’s been done to him.” 

At this, Bruce’s jaw somehow screws tighter; it’s a shock his teeth don’t crack from the force of grinding them together. Zatanna does little to ameliorate the thick tension with her next words, leaning forward a bit.

“Unfortunately, we have a bigger problem on our hands,” she says, to which Bruce braces for the worst. “When trying to return him to his world, there was some sort of sudden, for lack of a better word, _glitch_. His body disappeared and then reappeared. He ended up developing a bloody nose soon after. I think whatever’s happening, his and the original Damian’s body are trying to correct themselves. Essentially, something strong is forcing them back into their respective dimensions.

“Bruce, whatever’s happening to Damian... the effects are slowly killing him. _Both_ of them.”

The last vestige of what little calmness he had left fizzles away as Bruce swiftly careens from around the desk, blue eyes ablaze. “And there’s no way you can reverse it?” he demands.

“I can try again, but I can’t promise new results,” Zatanna replies with a slight frown.

“How long until…?” Bruce cuts himself off from saying the word; he can’t even bring himself to say it, damn it.

“Until his body can’t withstand it anymore?”

Bruce nods.

“Three weeks, at most.” Around Christmas time. _Three weeks._ That should give him ample enough time to solve this, if he utilizes every second of every day. His son will not die; not for a second time. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to live with himself if he does. 

He’d already made a promise to him, and he fully intends to keep it.

“Your help is appreciated, Zatanna. You’re free to leave now.”

Staring at him for a moment, as if she’s trying to read his expression, she moves to stand. Bruce walks over to grab the door before stopping when Zatanna raises a gloved hand. “Alright, no need to escort me out, I know the way.”

When she reaches the front doors of the Manor, she turns to Bruce one last time. Determined eyes find his own. “Hey Bruce, I’m going to try my best to make sure your kid is safe, okay? It’s going to be fine,” she reassures warmly. He gives her a perfunctory nod. 

“I’ll come back in a week. Till then, don’t be so hard on yourself. Tell the kid I send kind regards.”

The door finally closes, and Bruce exhales deeply as he begins walking away, unaware that a certain teenager has been eavesdropping throughout his and Zatanna’s conversation up until this point. 

Wiping away his bloody nose once more, Damian lets the words of his impending death settle in before quietly retreating back into his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim: you roped me into watching the brat on false pretenses!  
> Jason: I was a businessman… doing business.  
> Lmao I love making them interact, they have such a great dynamic. I wish they’d interact more like *actual brothers* in canon comics.
> 
> So, I recently rewatched Into the Spider-Verse again and got the glitching idea from there, if anyone was wondering, which no one probably was lol but now you know!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. I’m extremely sorry for the four months wait, I’ve had a ton on my plate recently with both academics and personal issues. Plus, I guess I just kinda fell out with this fic. But I’ve returned to give you guys a chapter that I worked really hard on to get out! I promise you, I have no intention whatsoever of abandoning this fic, so I suggest y’all strap in tight. 
> 
> To those of you who left kudos/bookmarked/subscribed/commented, I seriously appreciate y’all with all my heart. 400 kudos? I seriously can’t thank you enough! You made most of my November-January bearable, and motivated me to keep writing. Thanks, and enjoy chapter 5 :)

They walk in tandem of each other, Damian lingering a few footsteps behind as they make their way back to Manor grounds. Occasionally Cleo, his newfound companion and very adorable Persian kitten, will fuss in his arms, dealing a few scratches to his exposed skin when he implores her to calm down. She’s a spunky one, that he can say for sure. She and Alfred the Cat would more than likely get along charmingly. _Not._

The beginning of the walk is potent with a thick silence, neither knowing what to say to the other; Damian busies himself with Cleo while Dick just trudges through the snow without a word, gaze trained on the blanket of pristine white below. Damian spares a couple furtive glances here and there — sometimes even catching Dick doing the same, resulting in them both snapping their heads in the opposite direction. 

Awkward is a sanitized word for what Damian considers the atmosphere between them. And, to be quite honest, it’s a bit jarring — _him_ being awkward with _Grayson,_ of all people. It reminds Damian all too much of his early Robin days, when Dick had been a Batman fill-in while his father was MIA; where a new take of the dynamic duo had been born, still fresh and clumsily out of sync with one another. 

Although the lost hours of sleep are beginning to take a toll on his body, Damian lets the frigid bite of snow below keep his mind alert. Sparing one more surreptitious glance at the older man, Damian studies him intently. Time has evidently touched him; the smile lines around Grayson’s mouth and eyes slightly more noticeable, and those blue eyes hold more maturity for his age than Damian recalls ever noticing before.

Come to think of it now, where was this Grayson’s levity? The smalltalk, and the incredibly cheesy banter? This man, though a stark carbon copy of his (former) brother, acts… different. Eerily so. 

Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’s looking too far deep into something that isn’t there. This man isn’t his brother. _Former_ brother, he mentally reinforces with a twinge of hurt. The man beside him is from another dimension — _this_ dimension. All Damian knows for sure is that the Richard Grayson next to him is a stranger; a stranger who happens to look exactly like the man he’d gradually grown to respect and admire over the years.

“So…” comes Dick’s drawn out voice, pulling Damian from where he’s engrossed in his own thoughts, “Were you at a party?”

Damian's vacant expression morphs into slight confusion, and Dick’s lone hand gestures to his Robin uniform in response. Oh. That.

“I figured that with your get-up and all, you attended a costume party?” 

The lie rolls off his tongue with ease, “It was for a school play.”

“Mm.” Silence descends like a heavy curtain. Then, “What’s that?”

Again, more confusion. Damian just frowns.

“What is what?”

“Your leg.”

Faltering in his footsteps, if only just for a split second, Damian immediately knows what the man is referring to. Feigning ignorance, he doesn’t dare meet Dick’s eyes as he speaks hurriedly — _defensively,_ “Nothing of concern. A mere abrasion I sustained while I was caught off guard. It'll heal within the next day.” 

From the way he can see Dick’s dubious side-eyed look in his peripheral, Damian knows the older man isn’t buying what he’s trying to sell.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“I… fell on a rock.” _Great one, Damian. You utter moron._

“A rock did that?” Dick asks, incredulity saturating his tone. 

“Do not sound so skeptical, Grayson,” Damian replies tersely, already changing the topic, “I’ve seen you bleed after stepping on a lego.”

“Mmm. A lego, huh?” Dick can’t help the chuckle that surfaces. Folding his hands behind his head with one exasperated sigh, he looks up pensively at the gray sky above. “Can’t remember the last time I stepped on any legos.”

“The other version of you found himself doing that an embarrassing amount of times. Courtesy of Drake for never cleaning up his playthings, and leaving us to injure ourselves over his carelessness.” Damian crosses his arms, almost petulantly so as he mutters, “ _Tt_ , and _I’m_ supposed to be the child.”

“' _Drake, Grayson’_ — what, you forget our first names or something?” Dick nudges him in the shoulder playfully, and the little light-hearted act has Damian scowling, even if some of the tension building between his shoulders assuages just a bit.

“ _Tt.”_

Dick chortles.

“Must be a Damian thing.”

“Pardon?”

“He does that little irritated _‘tsk’_ all the time, too.” The older man tries to mimic the sound, but ultimately fails. “Bothers the hell out of Bruce when he responds to almost every question with that.”

"Hrn."

When Damian doesn't bother saying anything else, the silence returns as if it'd never left; only this time, it isn't as asphyxiating. Instead, it's rather... peaceful, for a change.

They've been traversing the empty streets of Gotham like this for around thirty or so minutes now, relaying each other questions here and there, playing this game of 'who is really telling the truth?' At least, that's what Damian calls it. He keeps most of, if not all, his answers succinct for brevity's sake, but also as a way to avoid divulging any _bat-related_ information. Information that could possibly make this Grayson look at him more differently than he already does. So he keeps details about his life to a minimum, and omits what he can get away with. He thinks he's a good enough liar when it comes to things like this, and he's not suspecting any skepticism from Dick when he gives answers, so that should say something, right?

It's a slippery slope he's going down, Damian knows, but the thought of revealing parts of his life that would surely make most turn away from him in fear or disgust — the very thought that this version of Dick would see him in a completely different light? It scares him. He doesn't ever want to entertain the possibility of seeing blue eyes that were once so accepting of his faults and erroneous ways — _once accepting of the blood that taints his hands to this day —_ look back at him with nothing short of repugnance and disappointment. 

“Hey," Dick says suddenly, dragging the boy from the muddled thoughts plaguing his conscience. "How ‘bout we grab some donuts? Or any breakfast item you want, your choice.” 

Pursing his lips in careful deliberation, Damian considers the offer. It's a tempting one, and although Damian may not be on the brink of starvation, he is still pretty hungry; his growling stomach proving as much. 

“C’mon!" Dick elbows him lightly in an attempt to garner an answer. "I know you've got to be feeling a little peckish. Alfred _did_ make some wickedly good pancakes, but it’ll take us a while to get back to the Manor. So what do you say, huh? Up for a little breakfast excursion?”

Seems like his levity has returned in full force, which Damian is somewhat grateful for. If anything, it helps him relax a little more. He finally caves in with his answer, “Alright. But _not_ Leo's Donut Shop. I absolutely detest what they consider to be ‘donuts.’" His lip curls upward. "Honestly, a disgrace to such a delicious pastry.”

Dick laughs, hearty and strong. 

“Don’t have to tell me twice, kid. I already know."

  
  


*

Back in the Wayne Manor, three siblings impatiently wait in the kitchen area. Veils of golden sunlight filter through the windows, limning the three in a pale glow and signifying the start of a new morning.

Signifying that one more hour has passed since Dick departed the Manor to look for Damian, and he’s still not home yet. 

“He should’ve been back by now,” Tim finally says, disrupting the blanket of quietness. 

Jason looks up from where he’s hunched over the marble island countertop. The bags under his eyes are a shade darker than before as he checks his phone for the fiftieth time this hour, hoping to be met with a text or two from their older brother. To his slight dismay, there are none. Biting out a curse, he mutters, “Christ, how long has it been?”

Tim pulls back the sleeve of his sweater and glances down at his watch. 

“A little over two hours,” he notes.

A defeated groan falls from Jason’s lips, and he unceremoniously collapses onto the countertop once more. Meanwhile, Tim tries his best to suppress the burgeoning worry that's eating him from the inside out. Occupies his hands with his phone to try and resist the temptation of biting his nails, a habit he should have already long grown out of.

“Maybe he’s still looking for Damian...”

In lieu of a response, Jason gives a derisive snort, hands repeatedly slapping the island top as if reacting to some sort of joke. He raises his head to the younger teen, the dark brows he raises partially hidden under curls of messy hair that cover his forehead. 

“You really believe that shit—”

“ _—Language,_ " Cass cuts in from where she sits on the opposite end of the island. Jason almost rolls his eyes, but nonetheless rectifies his choice of ‘language.’

“You really believe that _crap,_ Tim?”

The teen brings a hand to his chin, forehead pinched in thought. “I admit it is a bit weird. Dick should’ve worded it better instead of filling the entire text with emojis that are virtually incomprehensible to understand.”

That elicits a huff of disbelief from Jason. “So that’s it? It’s only ‘weird’ by your standards, but _totally_ plausible that our Damian isn’t actually _ours?_ ” Elbows planted firm on the countertop surface, Jason rubs his palms into tired eyes. “Tim, I swear your IQ was never room temperature before today.” 

“Can you refrain from making snide comments for one minute of your life, please? Or is that asking for too much?”

“Can you maybe refrain from saying stupid shit for—”

 _“Both of you, quiet._ _”_ Cass’s voice slices between their bickering before it has the chance to snowball into an argument, as it always does. She holds up her phone, quickly gaining the undivided attention of the two brothers. “Dick sent another message,” she finishes slowly. 

They’re at her side in an instant, Tim and Jason hovering over each shoulder as she doesn’t waste time in reading aloud, “' _At donut shop. Dami is safe and with me. Will be back in thirty.’_ Smiley face, thumbs up, donut emoji.”

“Guess that’s as good enough confirmation as we can get from Goldie.” Jason shrugs, and though he won’t admit it, that tiny seed of worry that was sprouting in his stomach shrivels. Outstretching an arm to his unsuspecting victim, he locks Tim in a surprise-noogie and ruffles his already unruly hair. Tim nearly jumps out of his own skin at the contact as Jason says, “So don’t fret your precious head, little bro.” 

Tim wrenches himself from Jason’s hold, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I’m not the one who's sweating the Atlantic ocean. Go take a shower or something, you reek.”

“Oh okay, I see how it is. _Coffee Breath."_

_“I haven’t even had any today!”_

Though Cass had almost evaded it, the bickering from earlier ensues anyway, and she just sighs at the petulance that unfolds in front of her. She sits up from the barstool, retreats from the scene quietly and heads back to her bedroom, already exhausted from a day that had only just begun. 

*

  
  


It happens fast and without much warning. 

What was supposed to be a peaceful morning was suddenly — _violently_ turned upside down in a matter of seconds. Everything had been perfectly fine minutes ago. Dick had been enjoying slurping down his iced cappuccino, nibbling absentmindedly on the end of his chocolate donut while he watched Damian slowly pick away at his own; the two were finally able to wind down, and gradually grow accustomed to the other. After all, Dick thinks they deserve the peace this quiet little hole-in-the-wall donut shop provides. 

However, the peace is broken, shattering like fragile glass the very moment Damian senses it; that primal, achingly familiar feeling that awakens deep in the marrow of his bones, triggering the alarm bells to wail loudly in his head and repeating one word over and over and over again.

_Danger._

Immediately after, he hears the roar of gunfire. It’s not hard to, when bullets spray through an enclosed space not far from where you are, creating the most god-awful ringing in your ears. The sound ignites every nerve in Damian’s body on molten fire as he surges to his feet, knocking both the chair and table to the floor with harsh clangs. He becomes a slave to his battle instinct, already slipping a hand into his utility built for a batarang and preparing to cross the room before a hand clamps down on his forearm. He’s abruptly jerked back and pulled down to the ground against the side of something warm and solid — _someone._

That someone is _Grayson._

Belatedly, the name finally registers in his mind, but not nearly as quick as his reflexes. Inches away from Dick’s bare neck is the sharp, threatening end of a batarang. Dick masks his shock well, but blue eyes waver with uncertainty as he stares down the arm that is a mere second away from dealing a fatal blow, and into the eyes of his little brother. Never before has Damian been quicker to let go of a weapon. It drops from his hands out of hot panic, his brows creased as he forces out an apology through clenched teeth. _Damn_ him for thinking that Grayson was the gunman. _Damn him._

Wiping away at the sheen of sweat that now beads his forehead, Damian misses the way Dick ghosts a hand over the flesh of his throat. Despite Dick’s fleeting feeling of fear, it takes only a moment for him to regain his composure. When gunfire and screams rip through the air again, he yanks Damian closer to his side and dives under their fallen table for cover. 

_“Is this a robbery?”_ Dick asks — more so to himself, his voice barely below a harsh whisper. 

“Not likely,” says Damian. Scoots himself away from Dick to get a better look — or at least he tires to, but the older man only tightens his already tenacious grip on the boy. Damian resists the urge to push him away, continuing, “The assailant is alone — most likely something solely for personal gain; revenge, if I had to wager.” 

The gunfire dies down. Footsteps begin to reverberate throughout the tiny shop, moving farther away from where they’re hidden. Although he can’t see from where he’s positioned, Damian can hear the gunman shout a long string of obscenities and threats that mix with the screams and sobs hanging in the air. 

Gritting his teeth, Damian’s about to propel to his feet when the realization slams into him that his face is bereft of one important thing. He stills himself. Wriggles around to face the older man.

“Grayson, do you have my mask?”

Just as Dick is coming off the phone with 911, he shoots a confused look at the boy.

“Like, a medical mask?” Damian swears his eye nearly twitches as Dick continues, unable to keep away the worry that bleeds into his voice, “What would you need it for?”

“Just — never mind.” Already embarking on a different train of thought entirely, Damian reaches into his utility belt and retrieves a creased domino mask. “Fortunately, I always have a spare.” 

Damian pays no attention to the cogs that begin whirring in Dick’s head at near dangerous speeds, quickly putting two and two together. It isn’t until a pair of heavy hands grab him by the shoulders roughly that Damian nearly lets go of the mask — startled, almost — his attention now snagged elsewhere. Green eyes peer up at the face of one Richard Grayson, who seriously does a terrible job at concealing his rising panic. “Wait, hold on — _Damian,”_ he begins. Pauses. Licks his lips before taking a breath, “You’re _not_ going out from under this table until the police arrive, do you understand me? It’s too dangerous.” 

Dick can’t believe he has to actually _tell_ him this. Damian can’t believe that the man won’t let him do what it is they’ve always done until it dawns on him for the second time today that this man is _not,_ in fact, Grayson. 

More gunshots and hysterical screams incense the panicked air around the two. While Dick flinches with every deafening ring and cry that echoes, Damian remains inhumanly calm and attentive. The sounds never really ceased to begin with, it's just that Damian has grown used to these kinds of things by now; him being able to filter it out as background noise since he was exposed to such horrendous sounds as an infant. 

From what he can discern straining his ears, the shots fired are only warning shots. But who knows how long until a stray bullet embeds into flesh. Damian can't risk waiting for the inevitable to happen while the seconds waste away — he's losing vital time.

Extricating himself from the older man’s hold with a forceful jerk, he lifts the mask to his face. “A lone man who’s blinded by his own inane desire for revenge and can't even shoot a firearm to save his life? This is child’s play. I’m going.”

Swiveling around from where he's crouched, Damian's one movement away from emerging from behind the table; one movement away from intervening when a lone hand suddenly latches onto his right shoulder, grounding him. He turns.

“I won’t let you.” 

Steel resolve pools in blue eyes. Green eyes narrow behind a mask. 

“You have no choice in the matter.”

When Damian goes to move again, the grip on his shoulder shows no intention of relenting; if anything, it tightens like iron. 

“You’re going to get yourself hurt, or _worse_ —”

“Richard,” Damian cuts him off sharply. Frustration frothes hotly in his blood as he grinds out through clenched teeth, “I’m not going to sit back and twiddle my thumbs, nor will I cower in _fear_ while innocent lives are at stake. _I’m going._ ”

“Damian—" Dick tries to plead, but it’s already little too late. 

Tan fingers curl around air when Damian tugs free of his grip.

He watches on in horror as Damian lunges over the table and disappears from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps roof of fic* this bad boy can fit so much tension into it
> 
> also, i hope you guys didn't get too much whiplash from the pov change. D:


End file.
